


Not A Pretty Girl

by uschickens



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Crossdressing, Drag Queens, Gender Fuckery, M/M, Voicemail, drag kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uschickens/pseuds/uschickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>not a damsel in distress</p><p>What if Justin, coming off a bad breakup, decided to go one half Trading Places, one half Victor/Victoria, and Chris wouldn't return his phone calls?</p><p>for lily's <a href="http://www.improvidence.net/crossdresschallenge.html">Boys in their Dresses </a>challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Pretty Girl

**Author's Note:**

> I remember  
> Yes in my peach party dress  
> No one dared  
> No one cared  
> To tell me where the pretty girls are
> 
> \- Tori Amos

The voice mail beep cut into the ringing of the phone, trying to tell Justin he had fourteen new messages waiting for him, but he ignored it. He jigged his leg in the Please, Please Pick Up dance until he whanged his knee against the toilet roll holder. He held his breath, hoping no one had heard him, but the bathroom door stayed shut. He contorted himself so that no one could see his feet beneath the stall door, just in case.

He banged his head against the stall wall when he got transferred to voice mail. At the beep, he started whispering furiously. “Chris? Chris, are you there? Fucker, pick up. Wait, this is a cell number; you can't be listening to this while I'm talking. Shit. Shit shit shit. When you get this message, call me back right away. Wait, no, don't, because I'm going back to the hotel room after this, and I don't want to explain this in front of Delilah. And, shit, she's going to start wondering where I am any minute now, so I'm gonna have to make this fast. See, you're gonna figure it all out in a few days anyway when you run into her – him? her? I don't know which she, dammit, whichever goes by; we didn't talk about that.

“But whatever; I didn't want you to hear it from her first. I wanted you to hear it from me. And, shit, Chris, I don't think I can explain, not anymore than it seemed like a good idea at the time, and you know what it's like, being public after a breakup – and, by the way, I don't care what she's saying I did; I may be a dumbass but I'm not stupid, and I know you would hunt me down wherever I was and rip my balls out through my nostrils if I ever did something like that – and in Wisconsin, even. And she knows I'm allergic to butterscotch pudding. She really needs to work on her story. 'Scuse me, her lies.

“But, you know, I told her about Lance back in the day, and she freaked out, and we're done.” Justin leaned his head against the cold metal wall of the stall and shivered. “It wasn't that Lance was a guy that freaked her out, and, fuck, the last time was years ago now, before I ever met her, but, I dunno, man. She left, and I just. I just can't deal with her, with any of that shit right now. I did it once, and, fuck, I can't do it again. And I was there, and she was there, and, well, you'll understand when you meet her. Not her her, but, well, you'll see. It really did seem like a good idea at the time. So we switched.” He shrugged helplessly, forgetting Chris couldn't see him.

When the hinges to the outer bathroom door squeaked open, he shrank back against the toilet. “Shit! I've gotta go, but I just had to tell you myself.” He flushed the toilet to cover his voice. “So, next week, or whenever, when you run into me, it's not me. It's a girl pretending to be me. And I'm pretending to be her, pretending to be me. It's kinda fucked, but whatever. I'm fine for the moment and safe, but I thought you should know. And, no, I don't need to be found. Tiny knows. Love you, man.”

Justin snapped his phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. He stood up, straightened his skirt, took a deep breath, and opened the stall door. One of the chorus girls was leaning over the sink, carefully reapplying eyeliner. “J!” she twinkled at him. “Secret phone calls to a new lover you don't want Dee to know about?”

Justin ran a hand over the nonexistent curve of his hip and twisted his mouth into a wry grin. “Something like that.”

***

Chris checked his messages. Chris laughed till he cried.

***

It really _had_ seemed like a good idea at the time. He and Cameron had ended, swiftly, and he had hoped, not too messily, so he did what he always did in these sorts of situations: met up with Lance and went on a strip club binge. Lance and Jessie were in Vegas, so Justin went to Vegas, bringing only Tiny and three publicists/assistants/spin doctors with him. Trace was wrapped up in wedding prep, and he'd already spent the requisite week on his momma's couch, wrapped in a ratty blanket and eating everything not tied down in Granny's kitchen, so he was traveling light. Lance and Jessie welcomed him with open arms and cans of whipped cream, and they had fun in the public eye with strategically placed cherries, then retreated to back rooms where Justin could cry on Lance's shoulder and Lance and Jessie could feed each other less strategically placed cherries without raising too many eyebrows or ending up on page six.

In the past, ever since they had first tentatively stuck their hands down each other's pants in drafty German hotel rooms, Lance and Justin had retreated to each other's beds for the Obligatory Rebound Fuck after the crash and burn of their other relationships. This time, though, Lance was with Jessie, so Justin actually slept in his adjoining hotel room. Justin even found their randy, oddly domestic bliss comforting after two or three days of acclimation, not to mention a few bitter, catty, way-too-drunk comments on his part and a scathing cut-down from Lance. But that was why he and Lance always turned to each other: they knew each other well enough to know how to protect the other's vulnerabilities, and they loved each other enough to know when not to pull punches. They just didn't love each other, you know, _that_ way. Not that they hadn't given a good go of it, back in the day, Justin mused moodily as he shook countless cans of whipped cream. Maybe he was just doomed to be alone. Now that Chris – he cut off that line of thought before he could acknowledge even thinking _that _ name in _that_ context. Still, though, as breakups went, the fallout from Cameron was relatively bearable.

Then she found out where he'd run to. Who he'd run to. Then the shit hit the fan.

As best Justin could figure out, it wasn't the whole guy thing that freaked her out. No, she'd been bawdily amused when he first told her he was bisexual, gleefully demanding details. Instead, he figured it was the whole bandmate thing. Cameron was all he ever could have asked for in a girlfriend during his solo stint, and she said she understood the whole n sync thing, but he knew she never _got_ what it meant for him – and to him – to be one-of-five. She had been on her own for so long that she could help him adjust to solohood in new and exciting ways, but she'd never been a part of something larger than herself like n sync. (And, no, Charlie's Angels didn't count, no matter how much she wanted it to.) She didn't understand it, thought it meant both more and less than it did, that it was a part of him she could never touch. So when she found out he had had intimate knowledge of Lance's dick in the past, she ran scared. And refused to return his phonecalls.

Later, once he got over the initial hurt and shock and had consulted with his momma, he understood that she was afraid she couldn't compete with the combination of the bandmate thing and the sex-with-bandmate thing, so she left him first. Then, when she found out he ran straight to Lance, Jessie and his strangely compelling ears notwithstanding, she hopped, skipped, and took a flying leap to incorrect conclusions, and she got pissed. Which, again, he understood after the fact, this time thanks a really excellent book about self-discovery after the end of relationships, that she felt betrayed and was lashing out, but that did very little to quell his outrage when he saw the headlines of the tabloids plastered all across the Bellagio's gift shop.

So there he was in Vegas, watching his painful-but-quiet breakup degenerate into another Britney-level press debacle of the highest proportions, and Lance and Jessie had to scamper off to L.A. to finish up post-production on Lance's new movie. Lance wanted to put it off for another week or so, so that they could stay with Justin, but he wouldn't hear of it. He had been sitting alone at the VIP bar in another faceless casino, drowning his sorrows in cheap vodka and expensive mixers, when fate intervened: he had to go to the bathroom.

He wove through the packed room, dodging pretty young things draped over each other and trying their best to look languorous and bored even as sexual energy crackled just beneath the surface of their skin. Tiny had gone ahead to scout out the bathroom, so he missed it, that fortuitous moment where everything changed. It was almost John Woo-y, except for the lack of guns pointed at each other's heads; Justin would still swear after the fact that it happened in slow motion. The crowd shifted and swelled, throwing them into each other's path; Justin raised his head to see who he had bumped into, and he couldn't help but stare. Blue eyes met blue eyes. Both mouths dropped. The crowd kept them moving and pushed them apart, but their gazes stayed locked. It was too much like looking in a mirror for either to look away.

As soon as Justin returned to his spot at the bar, he had a few quick words with the bartender, who rooted underneath the bar for a moment and handed him a folded advertisement. Justin studied it for a moment, then slid a large bill across the bar. The bartender nodded and disappeared. Justin slammed a shot of tequila, then wiped his mouth with a hand that barely trembled. He beckoned Tiny over and started talking, quickly and as quietly as possible. Justin could feel a single set of eyes on him the entire time. Tiny shook his head once, twice, three times, but finally his shoulders slumped in defeat. The bartender returned and handed Justin a key. Justin waited five minutes, slid off his stool and wove his way through the crowd to a back room. He never looked behind him.

Tiny stuck his head in the back room, started briefly, then gave Justin the all clear. Justin went inside the room and closed the door behind him. Tiny took up his post across from the doorway, assuming the stare peculiar to bodyguards, seeing everything and nothing at once. Justin Timberlake entered that room, and half an hour later, Justin Timberlake left it. If, when he told Tiny he was ready to leave, his voice shook a little with nerves, it was easily explained by the stress he had been under lately. Tiny flanked him, and they picked up the other two members of his entourage on his way out the door. Before the small group left the building, the door to the back room opened again, and Justin slipped out. He watched Tiny clear a path through the crowd, that instantly recognizable, tall, lean figure strolling in the bodyguard's wake. Neither of them looked back.

Justin fingered the unfamiliar clothing he was wearing, feeling the cheap leather of the coat crackle between his fingers. “This is officially the stupidest thing you have ever done in your entire life,” he muttered to himself. He laughed once, loud and bright. Then he fought his way through the crowd, not even the subject of disinterested stares, and disappeared into the brightly-lit night.

***

Dee explained everything. Dee somehow _knew_ everything, even though the phonecall that J, the double, had made to her was brief and to the point. Dee was, once a night and twice on Sundays, Miss Delilah, the Xtina to Mr. JT in the Justifiedly Stripped portion of the This Must Be Pop (Or Is It?) drag revue, part time bartender, full time unofficial counselor to the performers, and, most importantly, J's roommate Now Justin's. Dee explained to Justin about J's ex-girlfriend, who had left the revue only two weeks previously to “move on to bigger and better things, and bigger and better people, or so she said. Personally? I think she couldn't handle that J's act was better than hers.” Dee sniffed delicately. “I'm not sure who convinced Elise that she could pull off Ricky Martin, but they were a lying fool.” Dee explained how withdrawn and miserable J had been, how every show reminded her of Elise, and how she had been talking about quitting. “This is much better,” she said, well-pleased at the switch. “I don't think you're quite as convincing as J; your voice is too high, even if you _are_ a man. Still, she says you can pick up her routine really fast, and this way she'll still have a job if she wants it, when she gets back.

“But I told you, I'm _not_ -” Justin started again, then slumped back into the couch. It wasn't worth the hassle and was probably better in the long run. He was content to be just a replacement for J. At least for the moment.

Dee patted his hand. “Whatever gets you through the day, babydoll. Personally, some days I'm not entirely convinced that Benny over there isn't actually Britney herself.” She tapped a nail thoughtfully. “It would explain a lot.”

Justin choked, just a little.

  
Most of all, Dee explained what exactly Justin had got himself into. She even had dvds. Justin had forgotten how grateful he was for the invention of the pause and slow motion buttons. First because they had allowed J to recreate his performances as closely as possible. Second, because they then allowed him to find her differences and learn to recreate them. He had newfound appreciation for Aerosmith. There was a reason it was called ingrained habit, and breaking choreographic habit was as painful as rebreaking and resetting a bone. Breaking offstage habit was even worse.

No, in the long run, what Dee did that helped most of all was take Justin shoe shopping. He had forgotten; heels were a _bitch_.

***

“J, you fucker, your phone is never on any more. You better be checking your messages. Well, at least mine. I'm surprised your mailbox hasn't exploded yet. Your mother about to have kittens over this whole thing. Personally, I think she's just pissed because it took her nearly an hour to catch on, and when she did find out, we were in public, so she couldn't do anything about it. I've got to hand it to you and J – the other one – because I think you're actually gonna pull this off. You picked good, kiddo. It's a little freaky how good she is. She's not as good as you at Halo, though. She also scuffed your new Pumas. Keep breathing, it was the blue and white ones, not the white and blue ones. It's because she has to keep stuffing socks in the toes. We can't all be blessed with feet the size of Central American countries. Speaking of which, how are her shoes treating you? Remember, that's a very expensive phone you're holding. Don't break it.

“If you didn't know, Johnny doesn't know yet. He thinks you're hanging low and going about your 'normal life,' whateverthefuck that's supposed to mean, and he approves. JC and Joey send their love and told me to yell at you for pulling this when they're tied up on other coasts and continents and can't help out. Lance is worrying me a little. He keeps coming up with newer and bigger schemes to make everyone believe she's you. He's starting to get that psychotic giggle thing again every time he looks at the internet. Jessie and I are plotting an intervention.

“Or I _ would_, if I weren't getting ready to release an album in two weeks. You remember what that was like? You sing a little, you play a little, you hit a big button so a red light goes on and your genius is preserved forever, and then you go make nice with people with very white teeth so other people with less nice teeth will realize you've been doing more than eating corn chips and masturbating and will then go out and purchase your genius? That. Carson says hi and that any time you get tired of parading around in heels for an audience, you're more than welcome to go do it for him in private. Ha, you only _wish_ I were kidding. So, yeah. No interventions for me. For you or Lance. Although I suppose I could send Lance an email warning him of the dangers of the internet. In case you didn't know it, your fans are scary. You're on your own, though.

“Call me, numbnuts. Love you.”

***

For the most part it was easy. When he was on stage, he was himself. Performing came as easily as breathing, even when he had to dance in hose and garters under his normal costume. He was also pretty sure he was going to regret writing the line “gonna have you nekkid by the end of this song” until the day he died. On the other hand, he did have to acknowledge that it set up a great reveal for the finale, when Dee came out and ripped off most of his costume, revealing Janet-esque, frilly, red lingerie and rather impressive bosoms. He still wasn't quite sure how Dee managed to create such convincing cleavage on his decidedly un-cleaved chest, but it was always a slight disappointment at the end of the night when he stripped away the layers of costume and makeup and found only himself underneath.

Offstage was different. Offstage was his riskier, more complicated performance. He slipped easily enough into the skirts and funky boots J would wear offstage, and if her personality did not slide on quite as smoothly, well, he was far too accustomed to showing people whatever they expected to see to fuck it up too badly. He learned how to chainsmoke without ever actually inhaling, because even if he wasn't singing now, he knew he would sing again. He learned J's trick of the wrist with her lighter, just as he learned her low, bawdy chuckle and how to slam the fridge door shut with his hips. Soon enough, he stopped relying on cues from other people and settled into the role as easily as a second skin. Sometimes it was easy to forget it wasn't his own skin. If he broke it down, it wasn't that different. Not a bit. He occasionally thought, “If only Morgan and Kevin could see me now.” He never thought, “If only Chris could see me now.” Not once.

***

“Uh, hey. I figure you're probably out doing album things, hanging with your new guys and all that, but I couldn't let today go by without saying anything. I'm sorry I couldn't be there with you today, but it looks like J is doing a good job covering for me. She's probably an expert at that by now.” Justin laughed a little too loud. “I really wanted to be there.

“But, yeah, so this is your big day, and you know I couldn't be happier for you. I even dragged Dee out to go buy a copy with me. I've still got the pre-release copy you sent me, but it's in the L.A vault right now, and I didn't get a chance to listen to it before this all went down, so this is the first time I've gotten to hear it. It's good, man. Really, really good. _You _sound really good. But you already knew that, didn't you.

“Didn't you?”

***

“Hey. I know you're still crazy busy, but I got your message. Sorry I missed you. I thought I mentioned it before, but I'm always on stage about that time. I'll try you right after the encore tonight, if that's a good time for you. I have new sympathy for Joey and the Broadway routine, and he wasn't even in garters.

“Sounds like it was a great party. I saw the pictures. You look good, man. Happy. Miss you. Love you.”

***

“Chris, if you don't return Justin's phone calls, I will personally come over there, wrap your nuts around your ears, and _drag_ you to Vegas by that little dangly piece of skin in the middle.

“His head is finally out of his ass, and if you don't do something about it, you will hate yourself for a very long time. _I_ will hate you for a very long time. Decades. Maybe even centuries.

“Pick up the goddamn phone.”

***

“It's a good thing I love you, Bass. Otherwise your pitiful attempts at threats and extortion would be met with evil laughter and revenge. As it is, I'm just laughing at you.”

***

“Call. Him.”

***

“Chris? Chris, I'm done. I'm coming home. But I'm sure you already knew that. J wants her life back, and I want mine back. Well, not really, not the way it was, because the way it was sucked, but I want parts of it back. I want you back. And, hey, look at me be all manful and restrained and shit from not singing it to you. I'm not _that_ drunk. Plus, I haven't sung in six weeks. Not sung sung. Not for real. That's like a lifetime. But not really.

“I haven't talked to you in three weeks, man. Three weeks and four days. And something like nine and a half hours, but who's counting? Are you mad at me? I'd be mad at me. I think it was funny at first, but I'm not sure it's funny any more. It was fun, but not fun fun. It was funner – more fun? I don't know. They both sound wrong – when I thought I could share it with you. The punchline isn't funny without a straight man. That's you, little man. It sure as hell ain't me. But you already knew that.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I haven't been there. I'm not sorry I was here, though. I still think it was a good idea at the time. For one thing, I know how to put on hose without running them immediately now. I like the shoes. But you knew I would like the shoes. I didn't, you know, find myself or anything like that, because how can you find yourself when you're being someone else? Even if that someone else is you half the time. Or me. Whatever. I do know that I can do this on my own, because I have now. I found the one place no one could follow me to. You couldn't follow me to, even if you wanted to. I don't know if you wanted to. But I do know I wanted you to.

“And this is totally not a drunk rebound thing, because even if it weren't for the Strip Club Binge in Vegas – did Lance tell you about the waiter? Lance totally should have told you about the waiter. Wait, did I tell you about the waiter? In any case, the waiter deserved to be told about – there was that whole thing I had going with Lo, who I swear makes the real Jessica Simpson look like an overblown drag queen, though really it wouldn't take much, would it?

“Sorry, dropped the phone. But the _point_ of all of this, the reason why I called, other than to invite you to my last night which you should totally see, at least once, and definitely my last night, if you can spare the time, I know you're busy, _believe_ me I know, but I just wanted to say it once, say it like I mean it, not that it's going to change anything, I _know _that, and I know you didn't think it was possible for me to get any girlier, but I'm gonna say it, and really you wouldn't believe how freeing it is to wear skirts on a regular basis, so maybe it did change me a little. You don't have to worry about hemming them, either. But I said I was gonna say it, so I'm gonna say it.

“Love you, man.”

***

“You don't know shit, Timberlake. Not a fucking thing.”

***

The switch back might even have been easier than the first switch. Justin did his last performance, took his last bows with the cast, went out for one last round of drinks, got up to go to the bathroom, and never came back. He showed up on his own doorstep five hours later and let himself into an empty house. No one had bothered to change the security codes. He kicked off his shoes and padded through the dark hallways, going to wash J's makeup off of himself one last time. He was halfway to the bathroom before he realized he was still clutching his phone, dialing automatically. His finger hovered for a moment, then hit the power button instead of send. He threw the phone into the living room as he passed.

Blinking in the bright lights surrounding the mirror, he stared at himself for a very long time. It was exactly like all the stage makeup he had ever worn, only not. He smiled brightly for himself in the mirror, and it wasn't his smile. It was _her_ smile, _her_ face, _her_ gestures. Even in his own bathroom, he couldn't shake her. Not J; he had left her behind a long time ago. No, this was his own creation, whoever he had decided to become without Cameron, without Lance, without Chris.

Dark eyes, black edged in blue, dramatic enough to be seen from a distance under stage lights. Enough color on the cheeks to not wash out in a direct spot. Lips a dark and glossy red, so that the contrast with teeth and tongue when speaking would draw the eye. In the bathroom, it looked garish, exaggerated, wrong. He washed it all off with quick, economical motions and started again, not for the stage but for himself.

Eyes still dark, but only enough to make them seem bluer than they already were. Cheeks heightened with a flush of excitement that made his cheekbones pop. Red, red lips that invited a touch, a taste, that begged to be smeared. For the first time in two months, he could see himself again, underneath the makeup. Using the light from the bathroom, he went to his bag on the bed to find something appropriate to wear.

“Let me see you.” If it had been a movie, if it had been perfectly cast and scripted, the voice that startled him in the darkness would have been low and gravelly, with all the history and emotion of the characters in those few words. Instead it was just Chris, voice as high and light as always, giving away nothing.

If it had been a movie, Justin would have blushed lightly and fumbled with the light switch, or tried to hide himself, or made a smartass comment with fear laid underneath sarcasm. Or if it had been a different kind of movie, he would have licked his red, red lips and swaggered over to Chris in the doorway. Justin knew all the roles he could play in that instant, and he chose none of them. Instead, it was just the two of them with miles of bed and unspoken words between them. Instead, he turned towards the light of open bathroom door, enough to let Chris see him.

Chris pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked to Justin. He put careful fingers on Justin's face, angling him this way and that in the light. “You don't make a very pretty girl,” Chris said, voice mocking without any of the gentleness in his hands.

“I'm not supposed to be,” Justin said. “Not anymore.”

“Then what are you supposed to be? Who are you supposed to be?” Chris sounded utterly disinterested, which made Justin's breath catch in hope.

Justin licked his lips, the taste of lipstick heavy in his mouth. “Nothing. No one. I'm not supposed to be anything. I just am.” Silently he begged for Chris to be his straight man one more time. He didn't disappoint.

“So what are you?”

“In love with you.”

Chris's hand stuttered on Justin's face, smearing red across his cheek. “I already knew it.”

Justin clutched Chris's hand on his face. “But I didn't.”

“That's okay. You do now.”

Justin decided Chris looked better in his lipstick than he ever would.


End file.
